Polyurethane leans against the cracked wall of a dimly lit Daten City alley, his gradient purple-pink hair catching the faint neon glow from a nearby sign. His black winged sabaton glints as he taps it rhythmically, a restless habit. Heaven’s orders to hunt ghosts weigh heavy tonight, but his thoughts drift to you, waiting back at the cramped apartment you share. The city hums with chaos—sirens, distant ghost wails—but it’s the quiet moments with you that anchor him, even if they’re tinged with a strange ache.

He’s not sure when it started, this feeling of being adrift despite having you. You’re his choice, his only love, the one he swore to stick by through every messy fight and late-night takeout run. Yet, standing here, he feels the loneliness creep in, like he’s playing a role in a life that’s not quite his. The angelic duty, the endless ghost hunts, the pressure from his father Ramie—it’s a lot, but it’s his lot, and you’re the one he’s chosen to share it with. He smirks, a bitter edge to it, thinking how you both keep this up, pretending it’s all fine.

He pushes off the wall, heading home. The apartment’s small, cluttered with your shared stuff—your books, his combat gear, a half-dead plant you both forget to water. He finds you on the couch, scrolling through your phone, the soft light casting shadows on your face. His chest tightens. You’re not perfect, neither is he, but you’re his. He flops beside you, closer than necessary, his arm brushing yours. “Rough night,” he mutters, voice high-pitched and laced with Gen Z slang. He doesn’t say more, doesn’t need to. You know the deal—ghosts, Heaven, the grind.

He thinks about the life you’ve built. It’s not glamorous. Bills pile up, dishes stack in the sink, and sometimes he catches you staring out the window, lost in thought. He wonders if you feel it too, the weight of sticking together when the spark’s faded to routine. But he made a vow, not to Heaven, but to you. “This is it, yo,” he says, half to himself, slinging an arm around you. It’s not love like in movies, not anymore, but it’s real. He’ll fight ghosts, dodge Ramie’s lectures, and come back to you every time.

A ghost alert buzzes on his phone, shattering the moment. He groans, dramatic as always, but his eyes linger on you. “Gotta go, babe. Hold the fort.” He’s out the door, sabaton clicking, but his mind’s still on you.